


The Long and Short of It

by got_me_wrong



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Implied Death, Implied Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 15:49:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5211677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/got_me_wrong/pseuds/got_me_wrong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Processing takes time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Long and Short of It

“Did your parents ever take you on road trips when you were young?”

The silence was finally, generously, broken. He asked the question as if he were uncomfortable with the quiet too, as if he were offering a helping hand to break the ice. But as he turned to face me, all smiles that didn’t reach his eyes and sinister, practiced positivity, I quickly realized that I should have known better.

“I’m talking about long, long car rides, across distances that seem impossible, especially when you’re small. Ever done that?” He gave all the right pause to play at waiting for an answer, showing all the skillful, careful body language of an actor on stage: a tilted head at just the right angle to convey curiosity, a relaxed pose, a parted, barely upturned mouth.  All of these elements were betrayed by the eerie stillness of his eyes and the untouchable darkness behind them.

“My mother loved to drive,” he continued, deciding his question had hung just long enough. “She’d take us out every few months—me and my brothers, crammed in that small, narrow backseat—and she would drive for hours. At least it seemed that long, looking back. ‘There’s so much of the world to see,’ she’d tell us.”

The memory roused a low, thick chuckle from his throat. Ugly, dressed-up insincerity of which I wished he would spare me. Just get to the fucking point. Just let it end. Please.

“What I’m getting at though, is those trips away from home and out into that big, wide world…”

He looked beyond me, past me, eyes shimmering as they peered into that same overwhelming distance of which he so reverently spoke.

“…they seemed so _long_. Unbearably so, sometimes. The anticipation was part of it, perhaps. Maybe,” his voice rumbled, dragging down to barely a whisper, “it was the mystery of where we’d end up, what we’d all get ourselves into. What might be waiting for us.” Another pause for effect. “But those rides back home? Over like _that._ ” He snapped his thick fingers. “They seemed like nothing compared to the first drive!” Back and forth he paced before me, once across the room each way. When he spoke again it was louder, more strident. More confident. More terrifying. “Two drives, of the same length and distance, yet they felt so different.” Pocketed car keys jangled as he stepped towards me again. “Now,” he murmured, "why do you think that is?”

There couldn’t have been less moisture in my mouth; my tongue attempted to move but stuck fast to my teeth. I wanted to scream that I didn’t know, somehow more than I wanted to scream for help. I shouldn’t have felt compelled to answer him at all, but I wanted to oblige for reasons that eluded me completely. I swallowed nothing and shook my head, trying not to make a movement too fast, too wild.

“Ah. Well, lucky for you, I’m not without an answer! You see, it turns out that travelling to new places only _seems_ longer because your brain’s processing new information. And, whenever you’re learning or observing or experiencing new things, your mind does the same thing. Time isn’t really slowing down, as you might have obviously guessed, it only feels that way so you can process all of those great, new experiences!”

He held his hands up as if waiting for my shock, thought, and joyful understanding, in that order. Only now I had nothing for him now besides a great, balking stare.

Finally, he shrugged. “I just thought you’d find that interesting. Because it ties into pain, too.”

And like a snake shedding its skin, he shirked his neutral pose and descended, crouching until he reached eye level before of me. The mirth of his smile had finally, finally spread to his eyes, lighting them up with fire stoked by my trembling lips and sweat and the silent reverence of what could and would come next.

“Pain—most pain, anyway—is also something new for your brain to process. It’s not pleasant like a long, leisurely drive or a new book, but it deviates from your normal day-to-day of watching the Brady Bunch and jerking off. Slows everything down.”

A brief glimmer as it was unsheathed, and then there was a thick hunting knife in his hand. I began to struggle against my restraints until a heavy hand clapped onto my shoulder.

“So,” he beamed, “I guess what I’m trying to say is you’re about to have a very, very long day.”


End file.
